Soldiers Three. Rudyard Kipling

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СКАЧАТЬ sez I; “my heart’s sick in my ribs for a wink at anything wid the Quane’s uniform on ut. Fetch my throlly, an’ six av the jildiest men, and run me up in shtyle.’”

      ‘He tuk his best coat,’ said Dinah Shadd reproachfully.

      ‘’Twas to do honour to the Widdy. I cud ha’ done no less, Dinah Shadd. You and your digresshins interfere wid the coorse av the narrative. Have you iver considhered fwhat I wud look like wid me head shaved as well as my chin? You bear that in your mind, Dinah darlin’.

      ‘I was throllied up six miles, all to get a shquint at that draf’. I knew ‘twas a spring draf’ goin’ home, for there’s no rig’mint hereabouts, more’s the pity.’

      ‘Praise the Virgin!’ murmured Dinah Shadd. But Mulvaney did not hear.

      ‘Whin I was about three-quarters av a mile off the rest-camp, powtherin’ along fit to burrst, I heard the noise av the men an’, on my sowl, Sorr, I cud catch the voice av Peg Barney bellowin’ like a bison wid the belly-ache. You remimber Peg Barney that was in D Comp’ny – a red, hairy scraun, wid a scar on his jaw? Peg Barney that cleared out the Blue Lights’ Jubilee meeting wid the cook-room mop last year?

      ‘Thin I knew ut was a draf of the ould rig’mint, an’ I was conshumed wid sorrow for the bhoy that was in charge. We was harrd scrapin’s at any time. Did I iver tell you how Horker Kelley went into clink nakid as Phoebus Apollonius, wid the shirts av the Corp’ril an’ file undher his arrum? An’ he was a moild man! But I’m digreshin’. ‘Tis a shame both to the rig’mints and the Arrmy sendin’ down little orf’cer bhoys wid a draf av strong men mad wid liquor an’ the chanst av gettin’ shut av India, an’ niver a punishment that’s fit to be given right down an’ away from cantonmints to the dock! ‘Tis this nonsince. Whin I am servin’ my time, I’m undher the Articles av War, an’ can be whipped on the peg for thim. But whin I’ve served my time, I’m a Reserve man, an’ the Articles av War haven’t any hould on me. An orf’cer can’t do anythin’ to a time-expired savin’ confinin’ him to barricks. ‘Tis a wise rig’lation bekaze a time-expired does not have any barricks; bein’ on the move all the time. ‘Tis a Solomon av a rig’lation, is that. I wud like to be inthroduced to the man that made ut. ‘Tis easier to get colts from a Kibbereen horse-fair into Galway than to take a bad draf’ over ten miles av country. Consiquintly that rig’lation – for fear that the men wud be hurt by the little orf’cer bhoy. No matther. The nearer my throlly came to the rest-camp, the woilder was the shine, an’ the louder was the voice av Peg Barney. “‘Tis good I am here,” thinks I to myself, “for Peg alone is employmint for two or three.” He bein’, I well knew, as copped as a dhrover.

      ‘Faith, that rest-camp was a sight! The tent-ropes was all skew-nosed, an’ the pegs looked as dhrunk as the men – fifty av thim – the scourin’s, an’ rinsin’s, an’ Divil’s lavin’s av the Ould Rig’mint. I tell you, Sorr, they were dhrunker than any men you’ve ever seen in your mortial life. How does a draf’ get dhrunk? How does a frog get fat? They suk ut in through their shkins.

      ‘There was Peg Barney sittin’ on the groun’ in his shirt – wan shoe off an’ wan shoe on – whackin’ a tent-peg over the head wid his boot, an singin’ fit to wake the dead. ‘Twas no clane song that he sung, though. ‘Twas the Divil’s Mass.’

      ‘What’s that? ‘I asked.

      ‘Whin a bad egg is shut av the Arrmy, he sings the Divil’s Mass for a good riddance; an’ that manes swearin’ at ivrything from the Commandher-in-Chief down to the Room-Corp’ril, such as you niver in your days heard. Some men can swear so as to make green turf crack! Have you iver heard the Curse in an Orange Lodge? The Divil’s Mass is ten times worse, an’ Peg Barney was singin’ ut, whackin’ the tent-peg on the head wid his boot for each man that he cursed. A powerful big voice had Peg Barney, an’ a hard swearer he was whin sober. I stood forninst him, an’ ‘twas not me oi alone that cud tell Peg was dhrunk as a coot.

      ‘“Good mornin’ Peg,” I sez, whin he dhrew breath afther cursin’ the Adj’tint Gen’ral; “I’ve put on my best coat to see you, Peg Barney,” sez I.

      ‘“Thin take ut off again,” sez Peg Barney, latherin’ away wid the boot; “take ut off an’ dance, ye lousy civilian!”

      ‘Wid that he begins cursin’ ould Dhrumshticks, being so full he clean disremimbers the Brigade-Major an’ the Judge Advokit Gen’ral.

      ‘“Do you know me, Peg?” sez I, though me blood was hot in me wid being called a civilian.’

      ‘An’ him a decent married man!’ wailed Dinah Shadd.

      ‘“I do not,” sez Peg, “but dhrunk or sober I’ll tear the hide off your back wid a shovel whin I’ve stopped singin’.”

      ‘“Say you so, Peg Barney?” sez I. “‘Tis clear as mud you’ve forgotten me. I’ll assist your autobiography.” Wid that I stretched Peg Barney, boot an’ all, an’ wint into the camp. An awful sight ut was!

      ‘“Where’s the orf’cer in charge av the detachment?” sez I to Scrub Greene – the manest little worm that ever walked.

      ‘“There’s no orf’cer, ye ould cook,” sez Scrub; “we’re a bloomin’ Republic.”

      ‘“Are you that?” sez I; “thin I’m O’Connell the Dictator, an’ by this you will larn to kape a civil tongue in your rag-box.”

      ‘Wid that I stretched Scrub Greene an’ wint to the orf’cer’s tent. ‘Twas a new little bhoy – not wan I’d iver seen before. He was sittin’ in his tent, purtendin’ not to ‘ave ear av the racket.

      ‘I saluted – but for the life av me I mint to shake hands whin I went in. ‘Twas the sword hangin’ on the tentpole changed my will.

      ‘“Can’t I help, Sorr?” sez I; “‘tis a strong man’s job they’ve given you, an’ you’ll be wantin’ help by sundown.” He was a bhoy wid bowils, that child, an’ a rale gintleman.

      ‘“Sit down,” sez he.

      ‘“Not before my orf’cer,” sez I; an’ I tould him fwhat my service was.

      ‘“I’ve heard av you,” sez he. “You tuk the town av Lungtungpen nakid.”

      ‘“Faith,” thinks I, “that’s Honour an’ Glory”; for ‘twas Lift’nint Brazenose did that job. “I’m wid ye, Sorr,” sez I, “if I’m av use. They shud niver ha’ sent you down wid the draf’. Savin’ your presince, Sorr,” I sez, “‘tis only Lift’nint Hackerston in the Ould Rig’mint can manage a Home draf’.”

      ‘“I’ve niver had charge of men like this before,” sez he, playin’ wid the pens on the table; “an’ I see by the Rig’lations – ”

      ‘“Shut your oi to the Rig’lations, Sorr,” I sez, “till the throoper’s into blue wather. By the Rig’lations you’ve got to tuck thim up for the night, or they’ll be runnin’ foul av my coolies an’ makin’ a shiverarium half through the country. Can you trust your non-coms, Sorr?”

      ‘“Yes,” sez he.

      ‘“Good,” sez I; “there’ll be throuble before the night. Are you marchin’, Sorr?”

      ‘“To СКАЧАТЬ